


Cast Our Cares Away

by AndreaLyn



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2018-02-06 09:42:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1853407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndreaLyn/pseuds/AndreaLyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Porthos and Aramis' intimate relationship is discovered and brought to light, they are banished from Paris and forced to learn how to live a life as something beyond being Musketeers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Sir,” the young girl beckons the doctor with her hand, clasping his old fingers without even asking permission. “Sir, you must come!” The children of the town have grown very familiar with their old doctor. In the last five years since he had settled with them, he had grown famous for his great stories of Paris and a wild history of war.

It helped, as well, that he was the first doctor the village had entertained in nearly a decade.

“What is it now, my dear Lillian?”

“It’s the horse! She’s hurt!” Lillian says, tugging on his hand. “So’s Monsieur.” 

Monsieur, their farmer, who has remained nameless to the residents of the town, has also become a dear friend to them. The doctor picks up his things, adjusting his thick glasses as he lets the girl lead him along to the barn, where the mare is being tended to by the farmer. Neither seem to be very hurt, which is suspicious, indeed.

“She’s having the foal,” Monsieur says and when he reaches forward to catch the animal, the twinge of pain makes itself readily evident on his face.

The doctor turns to Lillian and presses coins into her hand. “Supplies, please, my dear assistant. I’m afraid I’m going to need to worry about our dear Monsieur more than I suspected.” 

Lillian takes off at a bolt, leaving the two men alone in the barn, to the sounds of a mare in the process of giving birth. The doctor hangs his hat upon the post, crossing the hay to settle upon a barrel as he unrolls his kit and regards Monsieur with a sharp and critical look.

“Don’t give me those eyes,” Monsieur mutters. “She went down, I tried to brace the fall.”

“And likely pulled every stitch I’ve given you in the last thirty years?” 

“ _Aramis_ , don’t.”

“I won’t when you stop hurting yourself, Porthos,” Aramis counters, adjusting his glasses to get a better look. “You know your back can’t manage the way it used to. You’re not a young man anymore and I won’t have you acting that way.” Rising to his feet, he crosses the barn to run his fingers through Porthos’ hair, fingers brushing through the curls that have begun their slow fade to grey. “Lillian gave me a terrible fright, saying her Monsieur has hurt himself. You should have seen the stricken look upon her face,” Aramis chides, uncapping his oils and sliding some over his fingers to begin massaging at the strained muscles in Porthos’ back, always tensing and seizing these days. “You’re going to have to stop working like this, soon.”

“Never,” Porthos laughs. “If I can’t have soldiering, I need something else.”

Aramis’ smile is sad in reply as he crouches next to Porthos, reaching out to place his hands atop Porthos’, giving him a fond and torn look. “If we were still soldiers, we would have died upon a battlefield long ago, my friend. Like Treville,” he says. Something darker crosses his face as he quietly adds, “like Athos.”

“Well, we’re not bleeding out on some field, are we? I’m helping give birth to a pony.”

“And for that, I thank God each day,” Aramis replies. “Now hold still. If you’re going to catch, you’re going to need both your arms working and I know how your fingers like to spasm when you’re aching.”

“Yes, sir,” Porthos grumbles. 

It’s hardly a violent life and certainly not the one Aramis had ever expected to be living. And yet, working as a doctor through his middling years while Porthos serves the town with his great wit, charm, and talents, it’s certainly not the worst of lives. 

If only they had chosen it.

* * *

_Twenty Years Ago_

The musketeer garrison is empty.

Throughout the whole of it, not a soul walks the earth. The soldiers are at the Chatelet for the impending trial, the service staff have been given the day off, and visitors know better than to drop by when the rumours swirl as thickly through Paris as they do. The only sign of life is evident in Captain Treville’s office, where heated voices have been arguing for hours.

“They know the punishment!” 

Richelieu grows impatient with every stride, his face beet-red as he tugs at the collar of his vestments, as though God’s leash upon him restrains him from what he truly wishes to do. 

Treville looks up from where he has his hands placed firmly upon the table. “I’m aware they need to be punished, but you know as well as I do that it doesn’t have to be _death_! The Queen…”

“The Queen,” the Cardinal cuts Treville off, “has been charmed by your man’s words and, I suspect but cannot prove, more than that. Let’s see how her good faith and great heart serve them when she finds out what they’re imprisoned for.” The Cardinal is red in the face, from exertion, from anger, and from the knowledge that Treville also possesses.

Even scorned, the Queen will not allow one of her favourites to be put to death. The deeds to the kingdom outweigh their actions.

The Cardinal sits in one of Treville’s chairs, shaking his head. “What sort of outfit are you running, Treville? It’s one thing for the two of them to indulge in such sinful actions, it’s quite another to be caught and put us all in this mess.”

“I’m sure it’s you they’re concerned about in their cells right now,” Treville replies sharply. “The King will want for your advice. It does not have to be death,” he reiterates, leaning forward. “Nor a life in prison.”

“Banishment?”

“It would serve your cause, would it not? Aramis out of your hair, away from your mistresses,” Treville adds, taking pleasure in the flinch it evokes on the Cardinal’s face. “Porthos no longer quarrelling with your Red Guards. Perhaps even Athos might be tempered by the shock of consequence.” Treville does not cherish any of these words, but the die has been cast and there will be no escape. 

Richelieu strokes his beard thoughtfully, as though he has begun to take a liking to this idea. 

“Dead is dead, though,” he adds.

“Do you really want that war?”

“No,” Richelieu sighs. “I suppose I don’t.” He presses his palm to his chest, over the crucifix that lies there. “I will take your advice into account, Treville, but know that the Queen has already made her plea. In all manners, the King listens to her more than he does I.” His smile is thin and insincere. “Lucky for you.” He stands, adjusting his robes. “Will you be at the trial?”

“Yes,” Treville confirms, given that he will be there to make sure the rest of the garrison behaves itself. “Please thank the King for allowing it to be private.”

“The last thing we need is for word to spread of the sinful and base natures of his Musketeers,” Richelieu replies, forming the sign of the cross as he sweeps his way out from the room, leaving Treville to the deathly silence that plagues the garrison, consequences resting heavily upon his shoulders as much as it does his men.

Only when Richelieu is absolutely gone does Treville curse each and every profanity he knows, shoving papers and weapons and stray items onto the floor when the rage of losing Porthos and Aramis sinks in.

When the room has been thrown into chaos, Treville finds solace in the stillness. 

There is a trial to go to. 

There is a verdict to be given.

* * *

Manacles holding his hands together, Aramis stands in the daylight of one of the palace’s great windows, standing in the grand hall in his dirty clothes, mucked from several nights in the prison. He has been brought here by his jailers and told he will be given his punishment. Standing in the same place he received Anne’s gift, he feels a sharp sense of pain at the fact that they have come full circle.

If he is to lose his life, best at her hand.

“Aramis,” Anne greets him shakily, sending her maidens off. It takes more doing to get the Guards to agree to leave, but they eventually do, leaving Aramis and Anne alone. She stands several feet apart from him, as though his sins are communicable. 

Even now, she cannot meet his eyes. 

He wonders if she can smell the sin on his skin, whether she looks at him now and sees him for nothing but his crime. “Are you here to deliver the punishment? What is it to be? The noose? Death by line of fire,” Aramis says, as cheerful as he can be. He does not wish to hurt Anne, would go to any lengths to prevent her heart from breaking. It is only this that keeps him jovial, rather than thinking of Porthos in that prison and what unkind judges will do to him.

If he could give his life to save those around him, he would, but Aramis fears it is too late for that.

“I have asked to be the one to give you your sentence,” Anne agrees, her gaze drifting to the crucifix that lies around his neck. “I fear my gift to you did not bring you much luck, in the end.” Her hands touch the swell of her belly and Aramis stares at her and sees a future that was never to be. 

It will be the King’s child and it is France’s future.

Besides, Aramis doesn’t have much of one, now. It might be odd, then, that he does not feel any remorse or regret for his actions. He and Porthos have shared more than brotherhood for years now and he had sought out solace. They had not been expecting the Red Guard to stumble into the open quarters, searching out Aramis to deliver a message.

Everything had been lost then. 

“I loved greatly and without prejudice,” Aramis says, only speaking these words because he has no audience but a woman he sought solace with in different times. “I will accept the consequences of my actions, but please spare a thought for Porthos. I was the instigator.”

“Aramis,” Anne chides gently. “All these years, it was you?”

Their relationship has been turned into wild rumour throughout Paris, but Anne seems to touch upon the truth without even being told. She catches the bewildered look on his face and she bows her head down. 

“I asked your compatriot. Athos.”

Aramis sighs. Of course Athos would tell the Queen the truth – that Aramis and Porthos did not only fall into bed the once and that it had never been Aramis alone as the pursuing, the seductive party. Anne knows this as well as anyone that while Aramis might have charm in spades, it takes more than one to make a mistake.

In this case, Aramis had never seen a sharing of such love and affection as a mistake.

“He said that as long as he had known you, that you shared a bond stronger than brothers,” Anne says, her head bowed low. She fidgets with her hands and the shame of their conversation shows in the flush of her cheeks, making Aramis feel even more terrible for visiting such things upon her. “The King knows that the blame is equal.”

“So he is to die with me,” Aramis replies, thinking that they will likely trot out the stake for them.

Anne raises her chin and brings her gaze to meet his. “No.”

He must be mad. He could have sworn he’d heard her deny the pyre.

“My Queen?”

“Aramis, René d’Herblay. It is my task as your Queen to deliver your punishment,” she says, her voice steady and distant, a cool echo of the warmth he had taken solace in before. “You and Porthos du Vallon are to be excommunicated from Paris, banished and never to return lest you offer your heads to the guillotine.”

“Banished,” Aramis echoes, wondering at the cruelty and the kindness in such a sentence, feeling panic seize him. “We are to be banished?”

Her nod is heavy with the burden of such a verdict. “Never to be seen in Paris again,” she repeats. “I am so sorry, Aramis.”

“You apologize for my sins,” Aramis says, wondering at this woman before him with all her wondrous generosity and forgivingness. “You have saved our lives.”

“I only require that you answer me one question in exchange for my kindness.”

Before he departs and they are likely to never see each other again. The pain of such a deal strikes Aramis only mildly, now, and he is sure to feel the full brunt of losing everything he has later. Now, he can only focus on her primary request. 

“One question,” he agrees.

“Do you love him?”

And in this, there is no hesitation required. “I do,” Aramis says, because he would not be so willing to lay down his life if he did not love Porthos with all his heart, given the steadfast presence of the man in his life. How could Aramis not love him? He is everything that Aramis does not deserve, as is Anne.

Anne seems to take solace in that, her lips curving upwards with a smile tinged by grief. “I am glad to hear. If you are to be banished from Paris forever, I am happy that you will not be alone through the rest of your days. The king does not know, but I have arranged for a small stipend to be delivered to you on a monthly basis. I believe he thinks I am trying to act as beneficiary to local farms. It will not be much,” she warns.

“A Musketeers’ salary was never much to begin with and Porthos has lived on far less,” Aramis says, knowing that he had as well, back in the days when the farm was the best he could hope for. “Immediate departure?”

“You can say goodbye to the others, but you must be gone from Paris by sunset.”

Aramis cranes his head to the sky to see how much time that gives them. 

Six hours, at the very most.

“Porthos has been sent to the garrison to begin assembling your things,” she says. “And I believe this is our goodbye.” 

There are no guards surrounding them that would give Aramis trouble if he were to indulge in one last kiss of his Queen’s lips, the ones he had dreamt of for so many nights, but he feels as if with the ruling, he has been branded and tainted. It feels as though he bears his accusation on his skin and for all to see.

So rather than infecting her with his impurities, Aramis affords her a respectful, low bow.

“Care for him,” Anne says quietly. “And make sure he knows to care for you in return.”

Of this, Aramis will always know. “We would never see harm come to each other. We will care for one another as though our lives depend on it.” And perhaps they do, given what might await them in the unknown farms in the surrounding areas outside Paris. There is much to do and very little time to do it. Arrangements must be made and Aramis must say goodbye to his old life, torn away from him because he had been caught in the act of cherishing and loving his dearest friend.

Perhaps if that is how the world works, then Aramis is glad to be rid of this one.

* * *

When Aramis is escorted back to the garrison, he finds Athos and d’Artagnan waiting in the main passageway. D’Artagnan is distraught, but Athos is unreadable. Aramis suspects he knows the storm of emotions means there cannot be merely one pinpointed, but he feels shame and guilt to have brought Athos to such a state.

“We’ll take it from here,” d’Artagnan insists, giving each Red Guard a firm look.

They exchange looks, not very content to give up their control. “He’s got thirty minutes. Then, he and the other piece of scum are coming with us. We’re escorting them to the city’s limit.” Athos reaches out calmly and restrains d’Artagnan from surging forward and attacking the Guard, of which Aramis is grateful.

No reason to have a third Musketeer banished, today.

“Porthos is collecting your things,” Athos informs him. “I believe he is intent on carrying everything you possess upon his back.”

They’re lucky they get this much, but that had been the provision that they could take with them only as much as they could each carry. Porthos had likely taken it as a challenge and would end up with an aching and sore back at the end of the journey. 

“Do you know where we’re going?”

“The best I could glean was a village some fifty kilometres southwest of here,” Athos replies. He is devoid of emotion in both demeanor and voice and Aramis wants to shake him out of it, if only to hear something. He does not expect despair, but at this point, he would happily settle for anger.

D’Artagnan is brimming with it. For everything Athos refuses to feel, d’Artagnan seems ready to bear it and show it off. Aramis is selfishly glad to see such emotions, but he knows that Porthos prefers Athos’ showing. He would not want to cause his friends such distress and for that, he is a better man. Aramis has not seen Porthos since they were torn apart and sent to prison and he is unsure how he will react when they are reunited, only to be exiled together.

Once more, he is selfish and glad that Porthos will be at his side.

“We may be banished from Paris, but do recall that you are not banished from us,” Aramis feels compelled to remind them. “When Treville allows it, come and visit us.”

Athos’ expression indicates that he doesn’t think this to be a wise decision, but Aramis is too stubborn to really believe that it won’t happen. He’s already sure d’Artagnan will visit them, given that he looks quite content with the idea. Now, he tries to be brave. His smiles are painted on as he clasps d’Artagnan on the shoulder. 

“Remember,” Aramis advises. “It’s not a bad thing if you have to fight dirty.” D’Artagnan nods steadily, as if he’s taking every single moment into account so that he won’t forget it. Aramis curls his fingers around d’Artagnan’s neck to draw him in closer for some privacy. “Do look out for Athos for us, will you?” he asks, but it is less a request and more a demand. “Make sure Treville doesn’t push him too hard and that he is kind on himself.”

“I’m sure you’ll see him,” d’Artagnan stubbornly vows.

“Look out for Athos,” is Aramis’ knowing reply, doubting very much that he would visit while the pain was yet too fresh to bear. He ruffles d’Artagnan’s hair and tries not to think too deeply upon the fact that he feels as if his heart is breaking in two. He hears the creaking of stairs above them and looks up to see Porthos with his arms loaded up. Aramis feels his breath taken away from him, but he musters a strong smile for Porthos, who must be feeling this even more than Aramis.

It is Porthos, after all, who is losing all honour and dignity. 

Porthos, who fought so long and so hard, and is now being kicked out of Paris for daring to love Aramis. The man wore his emotions on his sleeve and it was not hard to see how crushed he was at the punishment that lay before them. If Aramis had to guess, he would imagine that Porthos would have preferred the death sentence.

Aramis knows there is much to do as they settle into this new life, but he hopes to gives Porthos a place to call home and that is the most important task of all.

“Ready,” Porthos grunts, setting their bags down. 

Treville is not there. The majority of the regiment is still avoiding them, the minority hissing slurs at them as though they had never been part of their ranks. Aramis inhales deeply and looks to his steady companion, knowing that no matter what happens, they will have each other. Their banishment might have been worse if it hadn’t been for the Queen’s compassion. 

“You had best go,” Athos says curtly. “There is no telling how itchy the Red Guards will get if you linger on and I would hate to see the both of you lose your lives so soon after they were saved.”

“You see,” he remarks to d’Artagnan, light and airy as if nothing is amiss. “He does care.”

Aramis quickly sets about divesting Porthos of some of the load, avoiding his gaze while he does. There is a conversation waiting to be had, but Aramis fears having it here. It will only delay them and Athos is right. The Red Guards are eager to see them gone and they ought not to give them any excuse to attack.

“We’ll write,” Porthos promises. “Well,” he amends. “Aramis’ll write. He’s got better penmanship anyway. I’ll dictate.”

Aramis nods, cheerful to the very last of it. 

There are more goodbyes, but Aramis tunes them out as he accompanies Porthos to the entrance of the garrison, aware that this is the last time they will ever see it. There will be no more sweets purchased down the street and he will not hang from any of the boughs of these sills. Still, to escape with his life is no paltry feat and Aramis reminds him of God’s grace in such matters.

The cart awaits them with a pair of horses and Porthos grasps everything as he hauls it atop, ignoring the catcalls, leers, and insults of the Red Guards and some of the baser citizens nearby.

“Peace, Porthos,” Aramis murmurs, when a rather inventive slur is hurled at him with a tomato for measure. “We will be rid of them soon.” He doesn’t dare rest his hand on Porthos’ shoulder as he might at any other time, fearing what that would coax their audience into doing. While the trial had been private, he fears the mouths of the Red Guards had been quick to mutter filthy slurs against their dreaded foes. 

In a way, Aramis can hardly blame them. 

They have been caught and they must bear their sins.

Their caravan lingers on the outskirts of the city, where Aramis has pulled the horses over to watch the last light cascade over the city he had called his home for so very long. Gone is the safety of the garrison and the friendship of his brothers in arms. He feels terrible to say it, but Aramis wonders, briefly, if perhaps it would have been better to have died rather than bear this guilt on forever.

“Ready?”

Aramis turns to the source of the words spoken and remembers why it would not be such a kindness to forfeit his life. No matter how hard, no matter how difficult, and no matter how much they’ve lost, he still has Porthos. 

While no occasion for happiness, Aramis musters a smile and flutters his fingers to coax Porthos nearer, pressing a kiss to the corner of his lips as darkness begins to overtake their route. “We’ll make something of our lives,” says Aramis with firm determination.

“Will we?”

“You’ll see.”


	2. Chapter 2

On Queen Anne’s sum, they’ve managed to create a rather picturesque life for themselves in Blois. They are able to rent out the rooms above a barn from a local land-letter with the promise that they would work the land. Porthos had taken on the tasks of a farmhand and Aramis helps in the home, which is without its’ wife ever since a rather troubling disease had invaded the walls.

They are both aware they will not be able to stay here forever.

Already, there are rumours about town as to who they are, what they’re doing here, and whispers of how close these two strange men are. They will have to move soon, if they do not wish to be found in the night and hung. Perhaps they are too close to Paris with its travelers and its whispers. 

When Aramis retires on this evening, he plans to begin going through their possessions and begin whittling them down so the move would be simple. They will head West, he thinks, and make for the coast. It’s been some time since he’d last seen the ocean and he imagines the sea breeze will agree with him.

The moment he enters their shared lodging, he knows he will not accomplish his task of collecting up the items of their lives in order to move onwards.

Perched in a chair with boots on the table and hat hung low is Athos. 

“Mind your feet,” Aramis complains sharply. “We eat there.”

“Where’s Porthos?”

“Working, like the honest man that he is,” Aramis replies, swatting at Athos’ feet and getting them back to the floor. Athos bears a serious expression and Aramis gave up long ago at trying to read the man’s moods. Whether this is a visit for pleasure or a visit with foreboding news, Aramis cannot say. “Are you staying for dinner?”

Athos rises to his feet, circling the small room and taking in each possession carefully, touching it as if he needs to verify it exists in reality. 

“I could eat. Wine?”

Aramis snorts ruefully, pointing to the bench. “In there,” he advises. “Don’t drink the one on the far right. I think Porthos is saving it for his birthday and he’ll be very upset if it’s gone missing.” He watches as Athos plucks up one of the bottles in the middle, a bottle that’s likely to go off soon. He makes a show of displaying it to Aramis, as if asking for permission. “Pull another,” Aramis says with a gesture, starting the fire to begin making a stew. “If you’re drinking with us, we’ll need it.”

Athos does as he’s told, uncorking both at the same time and pouring three glasses.

“D’Artagnan sends his regards,” Athos says calmly, as the red liquid fills up the glasses and begins to look more like blood than wine. “He has been dispatched with the King on a personal errand. His loyalty is valued now more than ever. I have some of yours and Porthos’ small weapons from Treville and the Queen has sent a lump sum. She calls it several years’ worth of birthday presents for both of you.”

Aramis scoffs to think they’ve been adopted by the Queen of France. “Her child?” He cannot bring himself to call it what it really is – his child, their infant.

Athos looks up, a dark shadow lurking on his face. He shakes his head and Aramis wishes that he had permitted himself to listen to more of the gossip from the city. 

“Miscarried,” Athos says. “Though, with God’s grace, she has found herself pregnant again.”

It stings more than Aramis had expected it to. True, he would never have been able to see the child, let alone do anything more than harbour fantasies at how he might raise the boy, but it had been a bright light in his imagination that helped him to sleep on more difficult nights. Unkindly, Aramis wonders if the Queen had help in creating this new child and whether the sum of money is an apology. 

“The King’s?” Aramis cannot help asking.

Athos pauses long enough for Aramis to read between the lines.

“Who?”

“There is a Duke in court from England. He and the Queen have become fast friends.” Athos inclines his head to the side, taking in the last corner of the little flat before he has exhausted all of it. “Your rooms are very quaint.”

“They serve us well enough.”

The heavy stomping of boots outside the door is all the warning Aramis needs to tell him that Porthos is on his way up and he turns back to the stew, forcing his mind to calm and his expression to go blank. Porthos does not need to linger in Aramis’ grief at a lost child he would never have been able to claim and if Aramis even so much as hints at it, he knows Porthos will.

“Don’t tell him,” Aramis warns mildly. 

“You should,” is all Athos has to say on the subject before the door is thrust open and Porthos comes to a shocked stop at the threshold, gaping at Athos like he’s Christ reborn. Athos gives a subdued smirk and looks Porthos up and down – no doubt taking in the simpler clothes, the added muscles, and the fading scars. “You know, when I enquired in town about you, they told me you’d only beat two of them half to death and cheated four out of their money,” he jests. “I believe you’re losing your touch.”

“Rubbish,” Porthos growls. “It’s called lying low.”

And what an argument that had been, convincing Porthos not to gamble away the Queen’s money in town lest they develop a reputation for themselves. Porthos chuckles deeply, embracing Athos with the crushing weight of a hug that’s most likely undone weaker men. Athos simply endures it, though by the end the discomfort is plain to see upon his face.

Aramis gestures to the table. “Athos is joining us for dinner. Drink?”

Porthos steps away, as if remembering to be a good host and begins pouring for the group of them. Dinner is a merry affair, filled with fond stories and easy companionship. Whatever hurt Athos had carried when they had left Paris several years ago has diminished and healed. Aramis takes the time in the candlelight to study their oft-missed friend, noting the greys and silvers beginning to thread through his hair.

“And what is your true reason for being here?” Aramis asks, when dinner has settled in their bellies and he feels they have danced around the subject long enough.

Athos sits in his chair as though he is at a summit and not amongst friends. “I was on my way to see Ninon and visit her, much as I will come to visit you,” he speaks, “but in the course of my preparations, I overheard some of the Red Guard. Someone in your village is very greedy and has a large mouth.”

“We’re not in Paris,” Porthos says heatedly. “They can’t come after us here.”

“Officially? No,” Aramis says, subduing the panic he might feel. “However, I would not put it past the Red Guard to come after us in the middle of the night and do away with two former Musketeers disgraced by their hearts.” It is difficult to hear, even when Aramis had known it was coming. “The town is beginning to turn, too. You cannot deny feeling this, Porthos,” he entreats and the look on his face says that he knows very well that things are taking a turn. 

Athos remains silent through it all. 

So this is the true reason for his visit, then. Aramis supposes he’s grateful to learn that Athos still cares about their safety, though it would have been nice to see him more often – then again, if Athos took to visiting them too often, he would likely be banished himself for consorting with their kind. Knowing the Cardinal, he might even be burned as the Queen’s mercy could not bless everyone. It is a thing that leaves an ache in his heart and as the candles burn down the last of their wax, Aramis finds that he doesn’t feel like he knows Athos any longer.

“Will you stay the night?” Aramis offers.

Athos has already affixed his hat to his head. “Ninon is expecting me late this evening,” he replies. “In a strange stroke of fate, you are merely three villages apart. I will be there in two hours if I leave now,” he says, an odd and private smile on his lips that Aramis recognizes well. Porthos isn’t very subtle about how he, too, recognizes it, clapping Athos on the back heartily and giving Aramis a waggle of his brows that says that they all know exactly what Athos will be getting up to tonight.

They wish him well in their parting, which seems short and not good enough for three men who used to be known as the Three Inseparables, but life has changed. 

Once Athos’ horse has left the horizon, Aramis allows the weariness of their situation to hit him. His shoulders slump, his spine loses its straightness, and his eyes fall shut. Though he has not asked for it verbally in years, Porthos always knows when to offer solace and he does it now, stepping forward to wrap his arms around Aramis and collect him tightly, stroking steady fingers through his hair while his other hand rests possessively upon Aramis’ hip. 

“We’ll go in the morning,” Porthos says quietly. “We can use the cart I bought, take the horses, and make for a new town or village or place.” Aramis gives a sound of agreement and Porthos rewards him with a slow kiss to his temple. The kisses continue lower, down Aramis’ neck and slide over the stubble that he has been meaning to tidy. 

Weary with everything but his love for the man with him, Aramis nods and thinks that they will have an early morning, but they are used to such things. While their lives have been spared, it is difficult to forget what the reputation they bear is.

Their lives will never be easy again.

At least they will never be alone, thinks Aramis.

“We will worry about that in the morning,” Aramis says. “Come to bed, now,” he coaxes, tugging on Porthos’ hands. “I’m too tired to do anything, but allow me a few hours of sleep and I intend to wake you with my lips on your cock,” he says flirtatiously with a smirk.

The responding growl from Porthos is _entirely_ worth it. 

“You say the sweetest things,” Porthos says and Aramis grins wider than he has all day, secure that he will not be alone in this struggle. He will never be alone.

* * *

Porthos greets Aramis outside their small stone home on the outskirts of town, grinning like he hasn’t since the last time they had a visitor from Paris. Aramis looks in the direction that great smile is aimed at, only to find two figures on horseback arriving at a slow canter. Even ten years since he’d seen her last, in Paris, Aramis could never forget those brilliant red curls.

“Ten years,” Aramis huffs, in mock-offense. “I thought he had a better sense of direction than that.” Porthos cuffs him upside the head and slides an arm around his waist (the privacy of their home has led them to more intimate moments, easier touches, and a closeness that Aramis had not thought possible with anyone outside a wife, yet he has found it here with Porthos). 

When they are close enough, Aramis’ eye takes in the picture before him and he cannot help his sly chuckle when he notices _it_. There is a wedding ring different from the one Aramis had last seen, upon Constance’s ring finger.

“That farmhound,” Aramis says with rueful delight. Porthos, beside him, makes a confused face and seeks out comprehension. Aramis points towards it and Porthos chuckles deep and amused while Aramis thinks that it’s about time. He supposes that with ten years passed, Jacques could not last in the face of love.

Porthos advances to greet them as Aramis lingers and thinks of the many marriages he might have had, but never did. He brushes them aside and joins the conversation in time for Porthos to ask whether they found the village easily enough. It is their second. They had packed up and moved when things grew terse in their last. Rather than heading West, they had gone to Rouen, north of the city and it is a touch larger than their last stay.

Perhaps it will take longer for them to draw notice, here.

“I hope you made sure to honour us at your wedding,” Aramis informs them as he helps Constance to dismount, enjoying the way both she and d’Artagnan look as mature and settled as they do. Beyond settled, Aramis spies something else in the way Constance carries herself and the swell of her belly. “And thought of me while conceiving the babe,” he adds with winsome charm.

When she smacks him, Aramis has wholly earned it.

“What’s he done now?” Porthos asks wearily as he ties up the horses, a tone he has taken on most recently and that Aramis had only previously heard in those of worried husbands and wives.

The thought that Aramis has not permitted past his mind, the one that comes to him unbidden in the night, is that Aramis has not had a marriage and has not taken on a wife, but he has something so similar and so dear and so loving that he is not entirely sure that he bears regret for not taking on the expected wife and living until he is fat and happy. He is plenty happy and he would not look good with extra weight on his stomach.

Constance cannot hold her anger, the glare turning to fondness. “Being wholly Aramis,” is her response. “How have you managed with him for ten years?”

D’Artagnan and Constance had once been firm, fast friends, but even knowing their loyalty would lie with them is not enough for Aramis to feel truly safe. Rather than slide an affectionate hand up Porthos’ back, rather than share a kiss as they do behind closed doors, he merely smiles at his friend with all the sunniest warmth he can muster.

“He loves me,” Aramis announces boldly.

Porthos, for his part, is grinning too. Still he shrugs. “Most days,” he drawls teasingly, clapping d’Artagnan on the back. “You’re going to be a father, are you?” Constance makes an undignified noise and Porthos shrugs. “I’m not blind, Constance, I can see you’re expecting.” (Later, in bed, Porthos will inform Aramis that after helping to birth foals for years, he could see it anywhere, but had known telling Constance such a thing would get him slapped) “Come on, we’ll make food, you both need to eat.”

“You’d best listen to him,” Aramis warns. “Once he has an idea in his mind, it’s near impossible to shake it loose.”

“Is that why you’ve gained the weight you have?” Constance replies, as if needing to create a verbal attack in addition to her hands. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were settled, married, fat, and happy.”

Aramis freezes for a moment, watching as she continues onwards after Porthos, prying the gloves off of her hands. He hadn’t thought that anyone had told her and Aramis doubts that Constance is the type to listen to the base gossip that people had whispered about them, but a pointed comment like that seems too spot on.

He glances to d’Artagnan, raising his brow to ask the question without vocalizing it. 

“She knows,” he admits. “She doesn’t like to think too much about it, but she doesn’t want to make a fuss either.”

Aramis sets that knowledge aside, his affront the most important thing after that. “She called me fat,” he says, struck by the offense. D’Artagnan levels a look at him that implies he shouldn’t push the subject or say another word, but Aramis huffs and resigns to ask for Porthos’ opinion on the subject later.

“I also called you happy,” Constance informs him over her shoulder, in a pointed fashion that says that she’s been listening the whole time. “Trust you to focus on the one that involves your looks,” she chides, but there is still fondness to be found.

Throughout dinner, Aramis spends the whole of it wondering if they are here with grim news from Paris, but the only thing they bring with them is joy. “Athos has sold the remaining property he held and despite Treville’s best attempts to corral him, he’s taken up a small farm outside of Paris,” d’Artagnan says as he dips fresh bread into oil. “Uncannily enough, it is a stone’s throw from Ninon.”

“And here they said they weren’t the marrying kind,” Aramis remarks, pleased to hear that Athos is doing well. They see Athos every few months, now, but with his increased responsibilities in Paris, it is harder for him to leave the city. For the most part, he makes his stops on the way to Le Havre and it is enough that he visits steadily. 

“Oh, to be fair, they’re still not married,” Constance assures. “They seem happy, though.”

“When did Jacques leave?” Porthos asks bluntly, a subject that Aramis had been happy to dance away from.

It seems to be a sore spot, yet, but Constance weathers the storm upon her features. “When he passed,” she says. “The stupid man got it in his head that bearing the Cardinal’s commission meant he ought to show it off. Gilded leaf and silks everywhere,” she says, brows knit in dismay. D’Artagnan reaches over to soothe her, rubbing circles between her shoulders. “He was caught unaware in an alleyway and was mugged. The people who witnessed said he wouldn’t give up his bag and they shot him.” Her story told, she bows her head low and when it is raised again, she appears carefree and joyful once more, as though nothing had ever been amiss. “And you two?”

“Us two?” Porthos echoes. “What about us two?”

“How are you coping?”

Ten years after they’ve been exiled and Aramis wonders what the answer is. He wants to know as much as the others do because he’s not daring enough to ask. He knows Porthos won’t lie, that he’s far too noble to do such a thing, so Aramis sits back with his glass of wine and waits expectantly for Porthos to give his reply.

Porthos looks over the table and in the candlelight, his features are soft as he takes in Aramis’ face, smiling as if he is in possession of a secret which he will not give to anyone.

“I miss Paris,” Porthos admits, though that smile has yet to fade from his lips, “and while I’ve got a purpose here, I miss being a Musketeer, but there’s honour yet in our lives.” He reaches under the table to slide his fingers over the knuckles of Aramis’ hand, twining their hands together where the two can’t see. “Ten years with my best friend isn’t so bad,” he says, still not looking at Constance of d’Artagnan as he speaks. “There are worse fates.”

The way he says it, the warmth in which he speaks, Aramis does not think he has heard Porthos say _I love you_ like that in many months.

“Besides, our lifespan greatly increased the day we stopped being Musketeers,” Aramis points out. “And no more parades.”

“No more long journeys in the stink of summer,” Porthos adds.

“No more heavy costumes.”

“No more laughing at the King’s jokes.”

D’Artagnan makes a face. “You two do know I still have to do all those things on a regular basis,” is his affronted protest.

Aramis and Porthos share a look, both turning mischievous smirks on d’Artagnan at the exact same time. “We know,” they echo in tandem, because ten years together has only deepened the bond of their attachment and has made them more capable of doing the things they do in synchronicity. It is like the fantasies Aramis possessed when he was younger, but those had featured a wife who knew his every whim and desire. Porthos knows all of those and has never once flinched from them.

“Now,” Aramis says, to change the subject, “Dessert?”

“Please,” Constance says eagerly, and they delve into the cake while wine is passed around and their warm conversation brings them through the night.

When they are ready to leave and d’Artagnan is packing their horses up in the morning, Aramis feels an ache seize his heart as he wonders whether they’ve seen them for the last time. “You know, ten years is far too long between visits,” he says pointedly, perhaps sounding too earnest in his reprimand. “You really ought to make a better effort.”

D’Artagnan presses his hat to his chest, glancing to where Porthos is helping Constance onto her stallion. “Constance wants me to take on farming again, for us to retire outside of Paris. I don’t think she likes being in that city, with all its memories.”

“And will you?” 

Aramis tries not to think selfishly. If they are to retire here, they must do so for their own reasons, and Aramis is striving desperately to remember that.

“Maybe,” is d’Artagnan’s reply. “I understand her troubles and part of me does miss farming, it’s just…”

“Giving up the Musketeers is near impossible,” Aramis finishes when d’Artagnan falters.

He ought to know. 

D’Artagnan flushes guiltily and promises to visit soon as he embraces Aramis and then Porthos in turn. When they are mere specks on the horizon, Aramis turns to Porthos, eyes searching his face and thinking back to what Constance had said the previous night. “Do you think I’ve grown fat?”

Porthos snickers and regards Aramis with bemusement, but he walks away without giving an answer and it’s either because he agrees or because he doesn’t agree, though knows that it will drive Aramis absolutely mad by not answering.

If the latter, Aramis will certainly make him pay for it. 

Many, many times over.

* * *

Rouen had lasted for them for years until Porthos and Aramis had tried to defend a young boy who had been falsely accused of a crime and sent out to die. They had saved his life, but called the slurs and attentions of the town upon themselves, forcing them to pick up their things and leave. They continued North and then West, settling in Bayeux where with a bit of money made from Aramis’ work with seams and Porthos’ work hefting heavy objects, they managed themselves a decent sized estate.

It was a lucky thing, too, given that their latest visitor demanded privacy.

Porthos greeted Aramis at the door silently, taking his cloak from off his shoulders with a grave look on his face. Aramis, unsure as to what it meant but in the habit of his routines all the same, ran his fingers through Porthos’ graying curls as he pressed a brief kiss to the corner of his lips in greeting, drifting inside the main hallway.

“What’s that look for?” Aramis asks warily. “Have you hurt yourself?”

“We’ve got a guest,” Porthos says.

Aramis eyes him suspiciously because Porthos is walking in a way that favours one leg, which does seem to indicate that he’s not as well as he claims to be, but his fussing is forgotten when Porthos leads him around the corner and Aramis comes to a stop when he sees a familiar face sitting on their chaise.

“Please don’t bow,” she pleads quietly.

“My Queen,” Aramis says, resolutely not bowing, but hanging his head all the same. He looks up to find Porthos lingering in the corner of the room. Years ago, fifteen (has it really been that long) years ago, Aramis might have asked Porthos to excuse himself to allow for privacy. Now, having built up a life and a future with Porthos, it is the very last thing in his mind. He drifts slightly closer to him and hooks his arm around Porthos’ waist to draw him further into the centre of the room.

Her gaze falls to both of them and it gives Aramis time to properly look at her.

She has foregone the gilded trappings of her station and wears only modest clothes. Then again, if the rumours are to be believed, her son rules on the throne with her giving advice as a former monarch. Rumour also whispers that the Duke continues to visit. While she is older, she is no less beautiful and Aramis finds himself thinking of another life that did not exist.

“Please,” she coaxes. “Come and sit.”

Porthos lingers behind Aramis warily, as if waiting for his decision in this. In all matters related to the Queen, Aramis has been designated the expert. Years and years ago, Aramis bore his soul to Porthos and had confessed all and now he is to be their liaison for such simple things as conversation. 

Aramis takes the chaise opposite the Queen and guides Porthos with him, resting one hand comfortably upon the small of Porthos’ back in case he wishes to flee.

Anne looks upon them both with a soft smile, as if charity and pity are her main tasks. “I suppose you are wondering why I have come to you, so many years later.” It has been seventeen years since they last saw each other and Aramis would hardly recognize himself in a mirror. He wonders at what Anne must think of them in their simple clothes, rid of most their weapons, and aged. 

Happy, too, he should like to think.

“I came because the last of the old Red Guard has now left their station, through desertion or death,” she says and Aramis immediately knows why she is here and what she has to say. Worry and hope builds in his stomach at the same time and Aramis moves his other hand to clench tightly at Porthos’ knee, as if bracing himself for Anne’s words. “There are no more in Paris who recall the cause of your banishment save for your allies and friends. With my son now in command and Richelieu long dead, I believe now would be a perfect opportunity for you to return to Paris, should you choose.”

They would not be Musketeers again, goes unspoken. Beyond their dishonor, they are too old. They would also have to shed their identities like a skin if they went back. While many would not remember, theirs is a story difficult to forget.

Beyond that, it would mean putting an end to the one romantic relationship Aramis has taken solace in for the last seventeen years (and more, back in Paris) and it is that last fact that has him feel as though he has been doused in ice. 

The conversation turns proper and polite, spearheaded by Porthos’ good sense to ask questions about the climate of Paris, the state of the Musketeers, and her son’s development. 

Aramis hears none of it. His mind has gone white and blank with the prospect of what she has offered them and he cannot convince himself to remove his hand from Porthos’ knee, as though he is steadying himself and will fall apart if he moves. Anne stays for two hours before her guard returns. Settling a hat upon her head, she exchanges individual goodbyes with each of them.

When she comes to Aramis, he feels obliged to press his palm to the crucifix around his neck, a gift he has never stopped wearing.

“We miss you in Paris,” she says, and Aramis knows very well what she means.

The King has been dead for years and though she is still a Queen and he is still a lowly citizen, it would have been easier. Then again, perhaps that would have gotten him hung rather than merely banished, so perhaps his life is still his own thanks to their circumstances.

She leans in to give a shaky kiss to his cheek, tentative and cautious.

“I would like to believe that you will both come back to us,” she says. “However, I know already that it will not happen.” She smiles, now, and it is like she is young again, barely more than nineteen and looking at Aramis as though he hung the sun. “You would not give this up so lightly. Then, if I were to find love of this sort, I believe I would experience much the same issue.”

She kisses his other cheek and Aramis bows to see her off. 

The heaviness of the door closing makes him jump and then the room is filled with silence and their presence. Porthos lingers nearby, fussing with the items in the dining area as though keeping himself occupied will prevent him from asking Aramis what he wants. Aramis has always known that Porthos would do whatever he asked and now he feels guilty for such a thing.

Aramis checks that the door is locked before crossing the room to rest a hand on Porthos’ wrist. “Stop,” he says lightly. “We need to talk about this.” 

Porthos glances up and in this light, perhaps because of the Queen’s visit, Aramis is struck for the first time by how Porthos has aged in such a lovely way, but has still collected his fair share of lines. They line his eyes and mouth, laugh lines about the both of them that speak of a happy life. Like a well-positioned assault to the stomach, Aramis realizes that _he_ is the cause of such happiness in the last seventeen years and it makes him stand by his decision all the more.

“What’s to talk about?” Porthos sighs. “The King’s out of the picture, Paris is safe, you’ll want to go back and end…”

Aramis cannot bear to hear the end of such a sentence. He steps into Porthos’ personal space and grabs hold of his face roughly, thumbs scratching against the short and coarse hairs of Porthos’ beard. It is a harsh kiss, but it is filled with the desperate plea of a man who wishes to stop talking of the subject.

It would not do to waste such a kiss. 

Aramis slides his knee in between Porthos’ thighs, rocking up against him until Porthos buckles and they fall back onto the chaise, giving Aramis ample opportunity to climb on top of Porthos. He is wild-eyed and desperate, but with purpose in mind. His kisses soften, but do not diminish, and it is only that he needs more focus to slide his hand into Porthos’ trousers and wrap around his length that they abate.

“Aramis,” Porthos breathlessly gasps, eyes wide with shock.

Aramis aims to kiss that surprise from off his expression, dutifully deepening the kiss until they fall into a steady rhythm, kissing as they often do after long days or because there is nothing better to do or because they simply want to, as they have on lazy hot summer days and cool winter’s eves.

Aramis has made a collection of noises in his mind that he seeks out most when touching Porthos and right now, he is making so many of them. They are keening things, as though the direct opposite of the breathless state he is in when injured.

And the way Porthos says his name. _God_ above, Aramis will never tire of that. 

His slow ministrations of Porthos’ cock lose any caution and he falls into the steady rhythm of kissing and bringing Porthos off with his hand, sliding his lips down Porthos’ throat and letting his lips linger, waiting, and waiting for Porthos to find completion. When it does happen, Porthos winds his fingers into Aramis’ hair and murmurs his name into Aramis’ ear, accompanied by a low, steady, “I love you.”

Isn’t this the reason?

Isn’t this why he could not return to Paris, even if his heart yearns for it and he misses it with all his heart. If they go back, he can never have Porthos in this way again and it makes Aramis cling tighter to him, arms wrapped around Porthos’ waist as he presses his forehead to his steady chest.

Breathless, hard, and knowing he shouldn’t ask, Porthos clasps a hand to Aramis’ hip. “Before we go into the bedroom and I take care of that,” he says, indicating Aramis’ bulge in his trousers. “What was all that about? Aramis, we do need to talk about this. I know how much you love Paris, the life there, the women,” he says and it is that last word that sounds as if Porthos has had to choke it out. 

Aramis knows all these things are true.

“I love you more,” is Aramis’ simple reply. Perhaps a decade ago, there would have been more of a contest, but as it stands, Aramis could not give up what they have now, not for the things he loved so long ago. 

Porthos looks at him with such wonder and such love that Aramis practically melts into it, knowing that he’s made the right decision. How could it be wrong, when it makes Porthos look like that?

“Bedroom,” Porthos says with an insistent nod. “You. Me.”

“Wonderful,” Aramis replies, rather keen on discovering what the next years of their life will look like, here.


	3. Chapter 3

They could not stay in Bayeux as long as they would have liked, but for once it hadn’t been the town that had ousted them, but rather their monetary situation. With the Queen no longer in charge of the treasury without her son’s consent, the lump sum payments had dwindled away and stopped. Eventually, they could not afford a house as they had.

Instead, they had collected their funds and bought a small farm in a new town, which would require no one to visit and help with the upkeep. Porthos took to farming again, became known as _Monsieur_ to the townsfolk and Aramis became something of a country doctor, renowned and known for his skills.

When they had moved here, Aramis had also had to make a concession that his sight had gone.

It was a lucky thing there were no targets to shoot, because Aramis feared that he wouldn’t be very accurate, not any longer. It was a simple enough life, but he found he enjoyed it. It had been so long since Paris that he often forgot what it was to live in the city, but the city would never forget them.

This was proven upon this fateful day, when Porthos lifted up a letter that had been delivered to their farmhouse. “It’s from d’Artagnan,” he informs Aramis, raising his brow with a bemused look when Aramis attempted to squint and read the writing. “Get your glasses, would you?” he says with little pity. 

Porthos, damn the man, has retained his perfect vision and indeed, near-perfect physique. 

It’s only Aramis who knows that beneath appearances, he has begun to struggle. His backaches are chronic and often lead to hours of rest that are only aided by massage and ice. Porthos tears open the thing while Aramis is fetching his magnifiers, something he’s quite cross about. “Too impatient by half,” Aramis huffs. “Seventeen years with you, and still that hasn’t changed.” He would continue but for the pale look on Porthos’ face and the way he sinks down into the waiting chaise. “Porthos, dear?”

Wordlessly, the letter is handed to Aramis, who takes it with all the due fright he believes is due. If it’s enough to shock Porthos, then it must be something truly horrific. 

It does not take long for the letter to inform Aramis of its horrors.

_…we had thought it to be a mere errand for the new King, but it had been an ambush. Eleven lives lost. Athos and Treville were amongst them, having both been pulled in to help due to dwindling numbers…_

Athos is dead.

Should he not have felt it? Once, they had been the _three_ Inseparables. Aramis is sure that he ought to have felt the dread settle in his heart in that exact moment and with one look at Porthos, he knows that he feels the same. Unwilling to be so far, Aramis makes space for himself in the circle of Porthos’ arms, closing his eyes tightly as he presses his forehead against Porthos’ shoulder, allowing himself to be handled as though he were without capability of doing so.

“Weeks ago,” is all Aramis can muster. “We should have been there, Porthos,” he says heatedly. “We should have…”

Seventeen years away from Paris and now Death has handled its scythe to strike down one of their best friends. It is with great shame that Aramis finds himself crying without sound, allowing Porthos to shift them until they are comfortable upon the chaise, weary with grief and silent tears long past the sun’s setting into the horizon.

“Where is he buried?” Aramis finally speaks, feeling hoarse. “Does it say?”

Porthos reaches for the letter with trembling hands and when he reads on, the letter slips between his fingers as Porthos closes his eyes and sinks back against the chaise, as if defeated once more. It can only mean one thing.

 _Paris_.

“Do you ever wish we had died, that day?” Porthos asks. “Rather than being banished so far away, do you wish we’d been strung up and shot?”

Aramis, feeling cowardly, has thought both. After all, if he had died that day, he would have lost these comfortable years with Porthos, but the two of them both would have avoided such hardships and indignations. Surely they would not have been chased out of so many villages if not for their reputation.

Their actions, as well, but it is a secondary thought.

Grief clasps Aramis so tightly that it feels like a noose, now, and he wonders if Athos had felt alone and abandoned when he had died. He thinks on Porthos’ question and knows the truth, knows it deep down even in the face of this news. “No,” is his steady reply. “We all must die sometime, Porthos, but banishment gave me a lifetime with you.” He doesn’t think they would have been so lucky, remaining in Paris. “And I have never loved anything or anyone so much as I do, you.”

Porthos’ hand is firm upon Aramis’ back and though Aramis isn’t seeking the words in return, he nearly buckles with relief when he hears them murmured against the skin by his neck, a quiet and reverent ‘I love you, too’ from Porthos’ grief-stricken voice. 

They stay there until the sun rises in the sky, roosters beckoning the dawn forth.

Creaky and feeling his age, Aramis regrets having not moved to bed as he pries himself from Porthos’ body, grimacing when every muscle protests his movements. Porthos rubs at bleary eyes, tracking Aramis’ movements as he hands him his seeing-glasses. “Shall I write to d’Artagnan?” Porthos mumbles, sounding heavy with sleep in a way that is normally far more inviting.

“Please,” Aramis requests wearily. “Before you send it, allow me to add a post-script.”

“Of course.”

They cannot ignore their duties for the day. They are dependable men in this village and they will have to bear their emotional and physical pains through the day. Aramis does not cherish the thought of it, but knows that Athos would not want them to simply stop. Aramis does not cherish any of his duties throughout the day, but he trudges through all of them with the knowledge that the end of it will bring him home to Porthos.

He is the light in the storm and Aramis knows that now more than ever.

They do not lose their berth in this village.

Years pass and Porthos’ back begins to decline in health. He can no longer tend to the farms as much as he had previously been capable, but has turned himself into quite the adept manager of accounts. He moves from the heavier tasks to that of the office and thrives in it. His clothes improve as does his manner.

Aramis remains the town doctor, well-known in the surrounding villages for his skill and his steady hands. Even though age has rendered him far less alert and perhaps a bit more rounded than he had ever expected, his hands remain steady through it all. By now, they have learned their lessons and do not call attention to themselves. They are respectable men who share quarters to save on money, which is a desired trait.

They are old enough that the young women are not paraded in front of them and though they are not the soldiers they had once thought themselves to be, they are neither of them unhappy. Porthos swears it with his lips and his touch each night, giving Aramis no doubt that this is a life he might never have chosen, but is not displeased with. 

On this night, Aramis returns home from work to find candles burning in the kitchen and Porthos making dinner in the soft light. Though they have done this for twenty-five years, it still strikes Aramis with how much he adores the man before him for being so quick to adapt and so ready to give Aramis all the happiness in the world.

There are many loves he has likely lost out on, but Aramis cannot remember whether any of them would have been worth half as much as what he’s had with Porthos. 

“This seems fancy,” Aramis notes, of the situation. He settles his hat upon the post of a chair before dragging his fingers along the small of Porthos’ back as he walks. He winds his way around him to press a kiss to his cheek, inhaling the rich smell of the red wine stew boiling away. “Is there an occasion?” 

“Anniversary,” Porthos replies, turning so he can steal a _real_ kiss rather than the quick peck Aramis had been content with. “Happy twenty-fifth.”

He had known, of course, on some level. Perhaps he hadn’t known the precise date, but he’d known because he couldn’t very well ignore the best thing in his life and when it had begun. If they are honest, it started before their exile, but it’s a date neither of them will forget and it had seemed the obvious thing to turn a bad day into something worth celebrating. 

Twenty-five years.

And really, all that Aramis can think is that he’d very much like twenty-five more.

“Set the table,” Porthos instructs, gaze searching over Aramis’ face. “And I love you too,” he says, as though Aramis has screamed it out loud rather than merely going about his everyday routine. 

Then again, perhaps he does let it show with every action and every little thing he does.

And in all his life, he knows there has never been a fact he knows more than this: he loves Porthos du Vallon and he is loved in return. It is not a life of a soldier with honour and blood and conquest, but it is a good life, all the same.

For certain, it is not one that Aramis will ever regret.


End file.
